A Christmas Opera
by Opera Cloak
Summary: A retelling of 'A Christmas Carol' by Charles Dickens. 'All Christmas celebrations are expressly forbidden by orders of the Opera Ghost. These include, but are not limited to: carol singing, trees being illogically kept indoors, gifts wrapped in paper, parties, good will, and anything with cinnamon in it' - O.G.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Hello, and welcome to my little Phantom Christmas fic, which I present with profuse apologies to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Charles Dickens. It is (obviously) a retelling of 'A Christmas Carol', with the Phantom in the starring role. I know this concept has probably been done many times, but I wanted to offer my own spin on it. I've aimed for a slight fairy tale quality. I hope it works!

Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy.

**A Christmas Opera**

**Chapter One**

1.

The Opera House was getting ready for the festive season.

In the past, preparations had been fairly subtle, but this year the new managers had other ideas. The Grand Staircase would be decorated with wreaths of holly, fir and ivy which would wind up the marble banisters. A huge fir tree would stand in the Grand Foyer, bedecked with baubles. And best of all, a party would be held on Christmas Day, for all employees and patrons who wished to attend.

Madame Giry watched the preparations with great trepidation.

"You gentlemen do realise," she began carefully, "that the Opera Ghost forbids all Christmas celebrations?"

Andre and Firmin exchanged glances.

"Why on Earth would the ghost object to Christmas?" asked Andre.

"Especially considering he's a load of old humbug," said Firmin.

"I don't know," said Madame Giry. "But it's in the Memorandum Book, under the clause about Box Five."

Andre consulted the Memorandum Book. Sure enough, there was the relevant paragraph scrawled in red ink.

_All Christmas celebrations are expressly forbidden by orders of the Opera Ghost. These include, but are not limited to: carol singing, trees being illogically kept indoors, gifts wrapped in paper, parties, good will, and anything with cinnamon in it. Ignore this at your peril. _

"You're not going to take any notice of this, are you?" asked Firmin.

Andre gave a nervous laugh. "Of course not."

"I'm glad to hear it. By the way, we need more wine for the party…"

Behind the walls of the managers' office, a shadow listened.

The Phantom tensed; the exchange between Andre and Firmin had unnerved him.

It wasn't that he had anything especially _against_ Christmas, as long as people kept their celebrations to themselves. What he did object to was the disruption it brought to his Opera House. The suspension of the winter season with no performances. The backstage areas ringing with additional, drunken, off-key singing. Gifts and cards clogging up the efficient postal service, which meant that his missives to the management were either lost or ignored.

There had been no official Christmas celebrations in the Opera House since 1878. He grudgingly allowed the New Year's masquerade ball, however.

With a sigh, the Phantom turned away. He had an appointment to keep.

2.

"Angel?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Do you think we could practice something a little more…seasonal?"

"What did you have in mind, Christine?"

"Well, I was thinking 'O Holy Night'…"

There was a long pause, during which Christine wondered if her teacher had slunk back to his lair.

The mirror sighed. "I think we should focus on _Faust_."

It had been almost three months since her teacher had revealed his true identity, appearing before Christine in her dressing room mirror and escorting her beneath the Opera. Which meant it was almost three months since she had seen him without the mask.

Although they had resumed their lessons, conversation had been stilted and strained, with her shy voice teacher hiding himself behind glass once more. He assumed a cloak of formality and would not be drawn on any subject aside from music.

Christine thought this a great pity. She remembered the man with sad, beautiful eyes who had sung to her so enchantingly amidst the candlelight. If only things could have been different.

Today, he seemed more withdrawn than ever. Christine was growing tired of it. She wanted them to talk again, like they had when he was the Angel of Music.

"Do you celebrate Christmas?"

"No."

"Will you be alone?"

"What do you think, Christine? Who, exactly, would I spend Christmas with?"

The words were harsh and bitter. Christine winced at his tone.

"I'm sorry. I was just wondering if you would be attending the party?"

"No, Christine. At least, I have no plans to do so…Will you?" There was an odd inflection in his voice. He sounded almost hopeful. But wary, too.

Encouraged, Christine pressed on. "I'm not sure. Meg will be there, of course. But my other friends are all going home for the holidays."

"What about de Chagny? Will he be there?"

"Angel…"

"I'm just curious."

"He's going to his brother's chateau for Christmas."

"I see. So, in the absence of de Chagny, you ask the Phantom."

"That's not what I meant at all." Christine felt herself flush with anger. She got to her feet and stepped towards the mirror, hands clenched into frustrated fists. "You're impossible sometimes. I'm sorry I ever mentioned it."

There was a long silence. And then: "I'm sorry, Christine. I…spoke out of turn."

His voice was sad, but she was tired of it. Tired of his sadness and his jealousy and the fact he wouldn't show himself. She felt her compassion waning.

"Yes. You did." Christine sighed and gathered up her music books. "I have to go. I'm going shopping with Meg." She bundled herself into cloak and scarf and marched out of the dressing room, not bothering to look back at the mirror.

If he wanted to sulk, she would let him.

The Phantom watched her go, one palm pressed to the mirror.

He knew he had been harsh, and he cursed his own bad manners. But she couldn't have been serious about wanting him at the party. No one would want him at the party. He would be the spectre at the feast, and no one wanted to be terrified at Christmas.

Christmas Eve stretched ahead of him, long and empty. There would be no performance tonight.

In the absence of anything else to do, the Phantom went wandering around the Opera House. The entire building was eerily quiet; the celebrations would start tomorrow. He surveyed the festive damage. The Grand Staircase was covered in greenery, and a huge Christmas tree had taken up residence in the Grand Foyer.

He stared up at the tree. He supposed it would have been rather beautiful in a forest somewhere, with no baubles hanging from it. The base was surrounded by parcels wrapped in colourful paper: Christmas gifts.

The Phantom couldn't remember receiving a Christmas gift. He wondered what it would be like. Then again, he had never really enjoyed surprises.

Back in his underground home, the Phantom stoked the fire, lit one extra candle, and ate a quick supper of items he had pilfered from the Opera's larder. Then he wandered over to his small library and surveyed his bookshelves. He kept picturing Christine's face before she had stormed out of the dressing room, and he needed a distraction.

His library was mainly comprised of opera scores and books about architecture, but there was also a shelf of romantic novels which he only turned to when he was very bored.

It would be opera tonight.

As he ran his fingers over the spines, his hand rested on a small leather-bound volume with a red cover. He slid it out.

It was a book of Christmas carols. He turned the pages, and saw that there was musical notation as well as lyrics.

O Holy Night was in there. It would have been easy to learn it from this book, and to accompany Christine on the violin.

It was strange - he couldn't remember ever seeing the book before. He certainly couldn't remember purchasing it.

He snapped it shut and blew out the candle. It was almost midnight; he would go to bed.

Getting comfortable proved a struggle. The Phantom shifted position several times, tossing the embroidered throw pillows from the bed and lying on the bare mattress. Even that didn't help, because he could feel every wrinkle in the sheet, every spring.

The sound of familiar, tinkling music made his eyes snap open.

It was the monkey music box. He could just make out its arms moving in the darkness as it played its tiny cymbals. It had never played by itself before. At least, not that he was aware. But it was old; the mechanism must be malfunctioning.

He fumbled on his nightstand for a match, and lit a candle. A dim glow filled the room.

The monkey had stopped. Its arms were still. Maybe he had dreamt it.

He blew out the candle and lay back against his pillow.

The music came again. But this time it was different.

The music box was playing a carol. Silent Night.

A chill ran down his spine, and he relit the candle.

The music box was still.

The Phantom was starting to regret the large piece of cheese he had eaten for his supper, pilfered from the managers' pantry. This was clearly all a figment of his imagination, brought on by indigestion.

He blew out the candle.

In the living room, the piano started to play.

He threw back the covers and slid out of bed. He crept towards the music, his hand tightening around the Punjab lasso.

A glow was coming from beneath the living room door, and the music grew louder. This could only mean one thing: he had an intruder. An intruder…who had broken into his sanctuary to play Christmas carols on his piano. Yes. He supposed that must be it.

He opened the door quietly, and crept into the living room. The piano was still playing, the keys moving unaided by human hands, Silent Night drifting across the room.

The Phantom stared at it. He couldn't remember purchasing a player piano.

Just as he was trying to think of another logical explanation, the violin, which had been lying innocently on the sideboard, decided to join in.

This was followed by the harp in the corner.

And the flute.

And so on.

At the last count, the Phantom had fifteen instruments in his lair. He was fairly certain he could hear them all now.

Apart from one.

Behind him, the organ clanged ominously.

The Phantom pressed his hands to his ears, trying in vain to block out this impossible festive orchestra. But the Christmas cacophony continued: Silent Night came to an end, and they moved on to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.

He had gone mad. There was no other explanation. Too much cheese and too much solitude had pushed him to the brink of sanity.

As the music reached a crescendo, the Phantom removed his hands from his ears and gave a cry of despair.

"Stop it! Stop it at once! What do you want from me?"

The cacophony ceased. He had the uneasy feeling that the instruments were watching him, waiting to see what he would do next.

"I think a more pertinent question," boomed a deep musical voice, "is what you want from us."

It took the Phantom a moment to process the fact that his pipe organ had spoken to him.

"You're a talking pipe organ," he said stupidly.

"Am I? That's interesting," said the organ.

The piano decided to chime in. "We're wondering why you object so much to Christmas carols."

"I…don't have anything against Christmas carols."

"That's not what you said to Christine Daae," said the organ.

"You leave her out of this," the Phantom growled, clenching his fists.

"Do you even enjoy playing music anymore?" whined the violin.

"He hasn't played me for two years," trilled the harp.

The Phantom put his hands on his hips. "I don't have to justify myself to you."

"Why not?"

"Because you're a harp."

"Oh, that's lovely, that is."

"Shut up."

The flute whistled. "Touchy, isn't he?"

"Very touchy," hummed the violin.

"Now you listen," said the Phantom. "None of this is actually happening. You" – He pointed to the organ – "are the result of indigestion brought on by a piece of old cheese. And you" – he indicated the harp – "are the result of too much wine, consumed with aforementioned cheese. I'm going back to bed. And when I wake up, you'll all be normal instruments again. Not talking ones. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

There was a silence.

The organ made a deep rumbling sound, as if it were clearing its throat. Or possibly bellows.

"It's not as simple as that, Monsieur le Fantome. You see, we've been given the power of speech so we can warn you."

"Warn me? About what?"

"They thought you would listen to your music, the thing you value above all else. They thought it would be the best way to get through to you."

"Who's 'they'?"

"You're going to be visited by three phantoms, Phantom," trilled the harp.

"Phantoms?" He shook his head. "There's no such thing."

"Really? I thought you of all people would believe in ghosts." This was from the piano.

"But…what do these _phantoms_ want with me?"

"They want you to change your ways," boomed the organ.

"But my ways don't need changing. I'm happy with my ways, thank you very much."

"Are you?" asked the violin, with philosophical melancholy. "Are you really?"

"And what happens if I don't change my ways?"

"Then you will be alone forever."

The Phantom gave a short, bitter laugh. "Is that all? I'm quite used to being alone. It's what I've come to expect. I can cope with loneliness."

The candles on either side of the organ's music stand flickered, as if the instrument was blinking. It looked almost as though it pitied him.

"I'm not sure you really believe that, do you?"

The Phantom was stubbornly silent.

"Look…just try to keep an open mind, would you?" said the organ. "I could have written a symphony in the time I've spent arguing with you. You've already dealt with talking instruments. Ghosts should be easy."

The Phantom wasn't convinced. "But…"

"Good luck, Monsieur le Fantome," said the organ. "You're going to need it."

"I could play you a lullaby, if it would help," offered the flute.

"No…thank you."

The instruments fell silent.

The Phantom whimpered.

Then he ran back to his bedroom and pulled the covers up over his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to those of you who read the first chapter, and for leaving me kind reviews.

There aren't many laughs in this part, I'm afraid, for obvious reasons. It's difficult to make light of our poor Phantom's past, so I haven't even tried. So this chapter is a bit darker than the previous one. But hopefully the contrast means it's still in the spirit of 'A Christmas Carol'.

Normal, mildly humorous service will resume in chapter three.

Thanks again!

**Chapter Two: The First of the Three Spirits**

The Phantom was still for a very long time, listening out for music or any sound at all. Anything to indicate that he was not alone.

There was nothing.

After a while his heart beat slowed, and his breathing calmed. Perhaps it had been a dream.

It would be fine. There were no talking instruments, and certainly no ghosts. He was the scariest thing in the Opera House. He had nothing to fear.

He turned over, burying his face in a pillow.

A shaft of gentle moonlight stole into his room and fell upon his bed. He smiled to himself. Such a nice, novel thing, to see the moon. He rarely saw it down here.

After all, this was a cellar, and there were no windows.

The music box tinkled gently.

With a cry, the Phantom shot into a sitting position. The moonlight shimmered at the foot of his bed. He watched as it coalesced into a shape. A figure. And soon he was looking at a ballerina in a long white tutu, a veil covering her face, like a Wilis from the Opera's recent production of _Giselle_. Her costume was so white she seemed to glow.

The Phantom cowered back against the pillows.

But then the little dancer lifted her veil, revealing a garland of mistletoe on her head. She smiled at him, a gentle, warm expression. There was something in her features that reminded him of Meg, Madame Giry's daughter.

"Good evening, Erik." Her voice was like a bell, bright and strong. But it was her use of his name which shook him to his core.

No one had called him by his name in a very long time. Hardly anyone knew it. Not even Christine.

His bottom lip was trembling. He bit down on it, hard.

"Please don't be afraid." The dancer came closer to his bedside. "I won't harm you."

"Who…who are you?"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

There was a short silence.

"Of _course_ you are." The Phantom had reached for his one remaining defence: withering sarcasm.

The girl was unfazed. She smiled. "I see you don't believe me. We must work on that."

"What do you want with me?"

"There are things I must show you." She held out a hand. Her skin was slightly pearlescent, like that of a porcelain doll. The Phantom stared at it. "Take my hand. We have very little time."

The Phantom was unused to women offering him their hands. He would have found this a strange situation even without the supernatural element.

Hesitantly, he reached out and let her grasp his fingers. Her own hand was unexpectedly warm.

"Hold on tight," she said, "and you'll be fine."

Then the ballerina began to twirl in a pirouette, faster and faster, taking him with her. The room spun and blurred. And just when he feared he would collapse with dizziness, she stopped.

The lair had disappeared.

Instead, they were outside, standing in an overgrown garden blanketed with snow. A large house loomed over them, ivy crawling over its dark walls.

The Phantom's heart skipped a beat, and he uttered a strangled cry.

"Why have you brought me here? Take me home at once!"

"But Erik, this is your home, is it not? Your very first one."

"This is no home of mine." The Phantom felt the cold for the first time that night. He drew back, shivering, arms crossed over his chest.

The Spirit's expression softened with something like pity. "Come on."

"I'm not going in there."

"Come." She tugged at his hand. "No one will see us. These are just shades. Shadows of the past. They cannot hurt you."

The Phantom took a deep breath. He could not imagine what possible good would come from this. But there was clearly no going back.

Gripping the Spirit's hand, he struggled up the snowy path and walked through the front door – quite literally. It was not necessary to open it. They slipped through the wood like real Phantoms, and he found himself thinking what a useful skill this would be back at the Opera House.

But such trivial notions soon vanished, because in the hallway, he heard the sound of a piano.

"Follow me," said the Spirit.

A moment later, The Phantom was standing in his childhood parlour, watching his young self play the piano.

He must have been no more than ten, dressed in the smart but worn suit and cravat he always donned for special occasions. His unmasked face was serene; he was completely engrossed in his music. At the moment, he was playing a Christmas carol: O Holy Night.

The door flew open. The Phantom stepped to one side, narrowly avoiding his mother as she marched into the room.

She reached the piano and glared at young Erik. "What are you doing?"

The boy stopped playing. "Just practising a carol."

"Well, I don't want to hear it. Our guests will be here soon, and I need you to go upstairs."

Erik slipped down from the piano stool and headed towards the door. The Phantom saw the defeated expression on his young self's face.

"Wait," said his mother. "I have something for you."

Erik's eyes lit up. "A Christmas gift?" His voice was hopeful.

"Yes, I suppose it is. In a way."

His mother handed him a small, wrapped parcel.

The Phantom watched, frozen, as his young self tore into the package with childish eagerness. Then the boy's face fell, his smile crumpling.

"A mask?" His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"You said you wanted a different face. I thought this was a way I could give it to you."

The boy looked up at his mother, who was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. The Phantom could see his young self searching for the logic in the situation.

"Thank you." Erik tried to smile. "It's…perfect…Mother, does this mean I can eat downstairs with the guests?"

His mother's expression hardened. "What?"

"I only thought, if I'm wearing the mask…well, they won't see me, will they? They won't be frightened…"

"No, no. You must stay upstairs. And don't ever ask that again."

Erik backed away a step. "I'm sorry."

"Go upstairs. Now."

The Phantom watched his child-self hurry upstairs, shoulders slumped, the mask clutched to his chest.

He turned away from the scene, blinking back tears. He knew what happened afterwards. Young Erik stayed up in his room, weeping silently, while the guests – his extended family – gathered for Christmas dinner. There would be music and singing and laughter and he would be excluded from all of it.

He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

"I shouldn't have asked," he said.

The Spirit's brow furrowed. "What?"

"I shouldn't have asked to join them. It only made her angry."

"Erik…"

"Don't call me that!"

"Erik, you were a child, left alone on Christmas Day. You did nothing wrong."

But the Phantom disagreed. He was all wrong. That was the point. He was repulsive. Who would want to eat and look at his face at the same time, masked or not?

He didn't say any of this to the Spirit, of course. He was sure she wouldn't understand.

Her hand slipped through his. "Let's go. I have more to show you."

Again, the spinning and dissolving and disorientation. Followed by stillness, and a different landscape.

After the grim chill of his childhood home, the Phantom was flooded with relief. This was, at least, a place he had been content, if not happy.

"You recognise this place?" asked the Spirit.

"Yes. This is Dejardin's Architectural Firm in Paris. I trained here. I…" The Phantom tailed off as he saw himself – eighteen or nineteen years old, now – leave the building. He was wrapped in a thick coat, a red scarf, and a soft felt hat, and he wore a leather half mask, rougher than the porcelain one he now favoured. He was smiling.

Suddenly, a young woman rounded the corner and hurried towards his past self. The Phantom gave a sharp intake of breath.

"You remember her?" asked the Spirit.

"Yes."

Her name was Amelie, and she was Monsieur Dejardin's daughter. She was kind and clever, and one of the few women he had met who was a university student. On this particular winter day, she was wearing a red velvet cape trimmed with brown fur, and her arms were full of parcels. She didn't appear to see young Erik, and the pair collided, sending her shopping tumbling to the ground.

The Spirit chuckled. "Oldest trick in the book."

Erik murmured shy apologies as Amelie bent to retrieve the parcels.

She laughed. "Could you help me?"

Young Erik's cheek turned an unattractive shade of puce. Then he bent low, gathering as many of the packages as he could. He insisted on carrying them inside, and the Phantom saw a small, satisfied smile on Amelie's face just before the door closed behind them.

"I think she's been waiting for a chance to talk to you," said the Spirit.

The Phantom laughed. "Oh, surely not! Why would someone like her be interested in me?"

"And yet she was interested, wasn't she? Here you are at Dejardin's Christmas party…"

The snow swirled, and then they were in a large room, filled with warmth and laughter. The Phantom recognised it as the main workroom where the drafting tables were kept, but these had been pushed back against the walls, and in their place stood a trestle table groaning with food and wine. The walls were hung with paperchains.

Dejardin's guests – employees, apprentices, and their families, friends and sweethearts – were dancing to the sound of a fiddle.

The music was filled with merriment, and the Phantom blinked when he saw himself standing in the corner, violin raised to his chin, his body swaying in time to the music. This version of Erik had a smile on his lips and colour in his unmasked left cheek. He looked healthy and plump, and was dressed in a waistcoat the colour of sherry.

The Phantom was astounded. He had never seen himself look so…bright. He wondered how he had ever managed to forget such an evening, but now he remembered everything. He remembered the warmth of it, the lightness he had felt when he stood up to play his violin.

Erik's bow sailed over the strings, and with a flourish he brought the dance to an end. The couples on the dance floor fell about laughing and clapping.

Amelie crept up behind Erik and tapped him on the shoulder. Erik jumped and spun around, but then his face cracked into a smile.

She pointed to the violin. "Is this an excuse not to dance with me?"

"Not at all."

"You've been tied to that thing all evening. Come and eat."

"I already have."

"Then come and sit. There's something I'd like to give you."

Erik followed Amelie into a corner. She reached behind a chair and pulled out a rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. She offered it to him.

Erik stared at it with every sign of puzzlement. "What's this?"

She raised an eyebrow. "It's a Christmas gift."

"For…for me?"

"No, for the man standing behind you."

The Phantom squirmed with embarrassment as his younger self looked over his shoulder.

Amelie laughed. "I was only joking. Yes, for you."

"Oh." Erik took the box from her hesitantly, as if it might bite.

"It's not poisonous," said Amelie.

"No, it's just…" Erik looked very close to tears. "I'm not used to receiving gifts. I'm afraid I haven't brought anything for you."

She waved a hand. "That's not the point. Won't you open it?"

Erik carefully unfolded one corner of the paper, then another, before tugging it gently away.

Inside, he found a portfolio bound in burgundy leather, tied with ribbons.

"Open it," said Amelie.

He undid the ribbons and opened the book to find page after page of blank stave paper.

"It's lovely," said Erik. "But – forgive me – I don't quite understand."

"I want you to fill it," said Amelie. "Fill it with that wonderful music you write. And when it's full, I want you to take it to a music publisher."

"You've heard my music?"

She nodded. "I hear you practising sometimes. In the attic."

"Ah." Dejardin had provided Erik with room and board as part of his apprenticeship. He had hoped his music had not disturbed the family in the rooms below, but apparently he had not been quiet enough.

"You will use it, won't you?" said Amelie. "I hope I haven't been too presumptuous…"

She was looking a little regretful, now.

"Not at all," said Erik. "I'm just…I'm touched. You're very kind. Thank you."

Her eyes softened again, and she smiled. "You're welcome."

"I'm sorry I don't have anything for you…"

"Just promise me you'll write your music down. And show me the book when it's finished."

Erik smiled. "All right. I promise."

And the Phantom remembered how he had stayed up all that night, writing a song. It was doubtless an immature ditty that had seemed profound at the time. Early the next morning, he had pushed it under Amelie's door: a belated Christmas gift.

The snow began to fall again, bringing a white curtain down on the warm scene. And when it lifted, the Phantom found himself looking at the same room, but this time it looked decidedly less festive. A small fire was guttering in the grate, and five men sat at their drafting tables, sketching. His younger self had a desk in one corner.

A sixth young man entered the room and paused at Erik's desk. The Phantom shuddered: he recognised the man. He even remembered his name: Claude.

Claude peered over Erik's shoulder, and frowned at his drawing. "What's that?"

Erik didn't look at him. Claude had only been with the firm for six months, and had taken an instant dislike to Erik upon his arrival. Erik had done nothing to offend the man. He simply sat at his desk in the corner, working away studiously, rarely exchanging a word with his colleagues. But Claude seemed upset by his very presence. A few times recently, Erik had noticed him whispering to the other men as he glanced in Erik's direction.

"It's a plan for the new opera house," Erik said softly.

Claude's eyes widened. "What? You mean the competition? You're entering a competition on company time? Wait until Dejardin finds out. He won't be happy."

Erik looked up at Claude then, his expression defiant.

"Monsieur Dejardin already knows. He asked me to design something and enter. He says I've got great potential…"

"Oh, he does, does he? Let me see…"

Claude snatched the plans from Erik's desk, and made a great show of turning them upside down, looking at them from different angles, his expression a parody of puzzlement. Then he started to laugh.

"What's this? This isn't an opera house! Where are the boxes?"

"There are no boxes," said Erik.

"Why is the floor raked like that?" asked Claude.

"To ensure everyone gets a good view of the stage," said Erik patiently.

Claude snorted. "Look at this! It looks like a child drew it. Where's all the decoration? God, it's ugly. Just like its architect."

Erik blushed.

"Leave him alone, Claude," said Pierre, another quiet man who liked to draw in silence.

Claude glared at him. "Oh, come on! Aren't you tired of this talentless freak getting all the best projects? An opera house! What does someone like him know about opera?"

Erik had had enough. He surged to his feet. "I'm not a freak."

"Really?" Claude was a tall man, and now he leaned forwards until his face was inches away from Erik's. "What're you hiding under that mask, anyway?"

Erik took a step backwards. "That's none of your business."

"I'll be the judge of that." And before Erik could duck out of the way, Claude's hand had closed around the mask.

The man's eyes went very wide. He dropped the mask and stepped back, his lip curling with disgust. "My God."

Erik looked frantically at his other colleagues, who were all staring at him with identical expressions of wide-eyed shock.

There was a silence.

Erik uttered a sob, pressed a hand to his right cheek, and fled from the workroom.

He collided with Amelie in the hallway.

"Erik! What's happened?"

Erik paused, his hand still hiding his face. He shook his head miserably. He could not let her see.

"Wait…" she said.

Erik wrenched open the front door and dived out into the snowy night.

Amelie was left alone in the hallway, one hand stretched towards him.

"And that was the last time you saw her," said the Spirit.

The Phantom turned away. "How could I go back? You saw their faces…"

"How do you know Amelie would have reacted in the same way?"

"I have a lifetime of experiences to back up the supposition."

"Did you love her?"

The Phantom tried to laugh, but could not summon the strength. He felt cold.

"It was just a silly, youthful infatuation. I was a boy. It was nothing."

"If you say so," said the Spirit. She paused. "After you left Dejardin's firm, your circumstances became difficult…"

"My circumstances have never been anything else," said the Phantom, trying to ignore the icy fingers of fear which were pressing into his heart.

The curtain of snow fell and rose again, and this time the scene was a night-time square in Paris, lit by lanterns and torches. The square was filled with dark figures, shouting and laughing.

Once again, the Phantom heard the strains of a violin. But this time the music was sad and eerie. A lost sound.

The music sent a chill deep down into his soul.

He turned to run. But there was nowhere to go. His world didn't extend beyond the square.

"Oh, no," he gasped. "Oh, Spirit. Why have you brought me here? Of all places?"

"I thought, perhaps, it would help you to see it."

"But how? This place is evil. Ghastly."

The Spirit had taken his hand again, and was leading him through the crowd, ignoring his protests. The figures dissolved around them, and they kept walking until they reached a tattered banner, its writing obscured in the dark. There was a wheeled cage beneath it. The cage was draped in a canvas sheet, and the sad violin music was coming from inside.

A figure out of the Phantom's nightmares – the Showman - stepped in front of the cage and tore the canvas away. The violin continued as the crowd gasped.

The Phantom closed his eyes.

"I can't look," he said, turning away. He pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out the violin and the gasps of the people around him. "I was a monster…"

"That music doesn't sound as if it's being made by a monster," said the Spirit.

"They all hated and feared me…"

"Did they? Look at their faces. How do you know their horror is directed at you, and not at the Showman?"

He clutched at her hand. "I can't see myself like this! Please, take me home…"

This time, the Spirit seemed to realise the extent of the Phantom's distress. Her hand closed more tightly around his. When she spoke, her voice was soft.

"Very well. We'll leave. But there's more I need to show you."

"Take me home!" roared the Phantom. "I command you!"

He kept his eyes closed, but he felt the scene change. The noise of the crowd disappeared, the eerie violin music ceased, and he was suddenly warmer.

"Open your eyes," said the Spirit.

The Phantom blinked. "You brought me home."

"Yes. But we are still in the past."

They were standing in his living room, far beneath the Opera. This time, the Phantom found himself looking at a much more recent incarnation of himself. He was sitting at the pipe organ, struggling with a difficult theme from his _Don Juan_. He was wearing the long Oriental robe and matching circular hat which served as his composing clothes. He often worked for hours at a time, and he found these garments warm and comfortable for the long stretches of composition.

He watched himself pause to scribble the music down, using a candle to harden the nib of the green quill.

The door creaked open, and Christine appeared. And suddenly the Phantom knew he had been brought back to that awful day three months earlier.

He moaned. "Oh, Spirit. Why have you brought me back here?"

"I want you to watch very closely," said the Spirit.

"I don't understand…"

"I want you to watch Christine, in particular."

Christine drew closer to the seated Phantom. He was absorbed in his music, and did not look up. Erik found himself cursing his own distraction.

_You fool! _He thought. _Look up! Look up from your music just once, and this whole sorry state of affairs could be avoided. _

But his silent pleading did not help. Christine's hand came forward, curling around the edge of the mask. She tore it away.

Erik waited for her scream, the sound which had haunted him every day since that terrible morning.

But it did not come.

Instead, the scream came from the seated Phantom. Which made no sense.

"This isn't right," muttered Erik.

"This is exactly what happened," said the Spirit. "Watch."

Erik forced himself to look on as his past self chased Christine around the room, screaming and raging. Finally, Christine fell back against the door, and he collapsed in a heap near the organ. The Phantom curled into a ball, and sobbed.

"Watch Christine," said the Spirit.

Christine shuffled nearer to the Phantom's hunched form. She reached out and touched his shoulder, but the Phantom whimpered and shied away from her. Christine was making soothing noises – it almost sounded like gentle, whispered singing – while the hysterical Phantom sobbed and shivered. Finally, Christine managed to coax the Phantom to look at her. At which point, she held out his mask, offering it to him.

Erik stared at the scene, burning with humiliation. It couldn't have happened like this. Christine had been terrified of his face. She had wanted him to hide it again. That was why she had returned his mask. But the Christine before him now was kind, compassionate. And the Phantom was a quivering lump of tears.

"Tell me, Erik," said the Spirit. "What do you think happened here?"

"I…I screamed and raged at her. I thought she was the one doing the screaming." Erik stared at the Spirit. "Is that why she was frightened? Did I frighten her because I was angry?"

The Spirit said nothing.

A new thought had occurred to Erik: Christine had not been frightened of his face. But she had been frightened of his reaction, which was just as bad. He turned away, filled with self-loathing.

"I was pathetic," he moaned.

"You were scared," said the Spirit.

Erik's pride was stung. "I was not."

"You sounded pretty scared to me," the Spirit insisted. "Have you spoken to Christine about these…events?"

Erik shook his head. "I haven't dared. I prefer to forget. It's better to keep my distance. Be her guide and guardian, from afar."

"I wonder if Christine would agree with you," mused the Spirit.

Erik had had enough. Things were supposed to be simple: he was the Phantom, and the Phantom frightened people. That was who he was, and all he would ever be. But now the Spirit had planted a seed of doubt in his mind.

Was he more? Could he be more?

No. Such thoughts were foolish, and could only lead to more pain.

"I would like to go home now," he said. "Back to the present."

"Are you sure?" said the Spirit.

He nodded, biting his lip. "Take me back."

The snow swirled, and the last thing Erik saw was the Phantom, on his feet now, mask back in place, gripping Christine's hand and leading her out of the lair.


End file.
